In Narnia
by Anidori-Kiladra
Summary: The rules are different in Narnia. Edmund/Peter.


The rules are different in Narnia.

In Narnia, Edmund can run with the wood nymphs, hunt with the fauns. In Narnia, he can ride all day and never get tired. He can dip his toes into the endless ocean. In Narnia, he is a King, and he rules the land justly and everyone loves him.

In Narnia, Edmund can love Peter the way he wants to. In Narnia, Edmund can kiss Peter and no one cares.

The first night he does it, the air is hot and the vines hang heavy with undripped moisture. The gardens around Cair Paravel sit under a heavy net of heat, even this late at night. Edmund sits in the gardens too, hung about with a different sort of heat.

Peter is inside, no doubt, laughing with their guests at the midsummer feast, but Edmund can't stay inside any longer. He can't stand to be stifled by the air around his brother, feel his breath catch in his throat whenever Peter lays a casual hand on his arm or back. He can't breathe in the salty sweet musk of him when he leans too close. It is the opposite of the feeling he had when the White Witch wrapped him in her cloak all those years ago—Peter makes him feel warm instead of cold. Only the shivers are the same.

Yes, the garden is definitely better, even with the vine that lies across his back, mingling with his sweat and sticking the light cotton of his shirt to his skin. Edmund peers through the window, blasted compulsion forcing him to take another look, but Peter isn't there.

Because he's right beside Edmund, leaning over the back of the bench, his hand on a branch. His weight causes the vine to shift, rubbing Edmund between his shoulder blades, and he sits up straight with a gasp.

"Boo." Peter says, his breath ghosting over Edmund's neck.

Edmund forces a shaky smile. "Aren't Kings of Narnia too dignified to shout boo at each other?"

"Never!" cries Peter with a grin, sitting beside him and throwing an arm over his shoulder.

Edmund shrugs it off, scooting away down the bench, terribly afraid that if he stays, Peter will know, know how much he wants this.

At this, Peter frowns, leaning in toward him. "Look, Ed," and all joviality is gone from his voice. "Are you all right? Because you've been acting odd ever since we came back from that raid on the Northern giants."

Edmund catches his breath, remembering for the thousandth time the bitter cold of the Northern wilds, his chattering teeth, Peter sighing and lifting the edges of his own blankets, inviting Ed to crawl beneath them. He remembers the thaw, and then the white heat that had nothing to do with blankets as Peter's breath scattered the hair on his forehead with each soft exhale and he could feel the hard planes of Peter's stomach as Peter drew him close.

Peter still sits there on the bench, watching him intently as his heart races. "What's the matter, Ed?" Peter asks so gently that Edmund's shoulders fall and he turns to face his brother, his breath escaping raggedly. Peter knows him better than anyone, except maybe Lu, and he's been a fool to think he could even hide it this long.

"Promise you won't laugh," he says, and Peter's face is solemn as he nods.

Edmund can feel his pulse fluttering madly in his throat as he leans across the distance between them, almost closing the gap between their faces, their lips.

But then reality comes crashing in and he turns his head away and down, embarrassment and shame and doubt making completing the gesture impossible.

But Peter ducks his own head and catches Edmund's chin in his fingertips, bringing their mouths together for a stunning moment and his skin tingles where Peter's finger hold him steady and all of a sudden his cheeks feel cold, then very, very hot.

They break away and Peter's eyes are as warm as the night.

"Ed," he says, and moves again, his mouth sliding and damp and tense and slightly metallic. Edmund could not imagine anything better.

xXx

In Narnia, everywhere is love and acceptance. Lucy giggles when she finds them rolling in the grass of the practice fields and Susan sighs, her eyes soft, when they return late from yet another hunting trip. The Talking Animals and other creatures of Narnia dismiss this as yet another quirk of the Sons of Adam, and Edmund breathes in more deeply every day. Nothing has changed. And yet everything has.

xXx

The last time Edmund sees Aslan before following the white stag out of Narnia, the lion's eyes are sad. He places a great paw on Edmund's shoulder and nudges his now-bearded cheek with a velvet nose.

"Things cannot always go on as they have," he says, and Edmund doesn't have a clue what he means.

A week and a half later, he stumbles out of the wardrobe with Peter and Susan and Lucy, dressed in knickers and knee high socks and blinking in the light. His memory's gone muzzy over the years and he knows the others feel it too. For a while, they used to entertain everyone at parties with their stories of the strange land beyond the lamppost, but after a while, there were no new stories to tell, and even the ones they knew seemed to drift away with the flowers of fall. He remembers England, remembers the war, remembers his mother. He remembers the professor, and hide and seek. He catches Peter's eye over Susan's shoulder and sees the same wonder as Peter begins to remember too.

It's strange, those first few days back. They sit in the girls' room and piece together their lives, and start to remember Geometry and Latin and a Geography that doesn't include Archenland and the Lone Islands. They begin to get used to being 10 and 13 and 15 and 16 years old again, being schoolchildren instead of Kings and Queens.

The first night, lying in the dark across the room from Peter, Edmund tries to take stock of the feelings raging beneath his skin, in his chest and his shaking hands. He remembers being millimeters, not meters, away from Peter lying in darkness, in a bed with red silk curtains and sturdy oak bedposts that always held firm. He feels his face grow hot and puts his hand up to it, marveling at the smooth feel of his cheek under his smooth hand. He wants to climb into Peter's bed with him but something stops him, some invisible barrier he can't define but that leaves him frustrated and restless.

And then every day it's like he's back in the garden again, watching Peter play cricket and throw back his head and laugh, feeling his throat catch when Peter catches him in a crushing hug.

Sometimes, Peter hugs him a bit too long. Sometimes Peter's eyes find his across the dinner table and hold them and Edmund stops still with a spoon full of gravy halfway to his mouth. Professor Kirke clears his throat and looks inquiringly at him over his steepled fingers and Edmund has to remember in a hurry how to move, how to chew and swallow and pretend that no, of course there's nothing going on. But Peter never says anything.

He speaks to Edmund of course, and of course they all talk about Narnia, but Peter doesn't bring up the long lazy days and even longer nights, the frenzied breaths, the touch of hands on bodies, and Edmund blushes and stammers when he thinks about it, and doesn't dare to be the one to begin it again, not if it's something Peter doesn't want.

Every once in a while he catches Susan's eyes on him, soft and sad, glancing over from a whispered conversation with Peter. Lucy has gone back to drawing pictures and Edmund wonders how she, of all of them, feels about going back in time.

And so, time passes. They begin to receive word that the bombings have stopped, London prevails, and soon they can go home.

The night before they're due to leave the Professor's house, Edmund has a dream. He hasn't dreamed about her at all since they got back. If you count the time they spent in Narnia, Edmund hasn't dreamed about her in years. But there she stands, pale and shimmery at the end of his bed, the cold mist rising off her in puffs and whirls. She holds a finger to her lips and smiles.

Edmund wakes in a cold sweat, heart beating wildly. He clutches his blankets, the back of his neck. It's slick and his hands are shaking. He's so cold, and the blanket is so heavy and still he's cold. So he goes to the one place he's always been able to find warmth.

Peter lets him in, lifting the covers and sliding over without even opening his eyes. As though, in sleep, he can do what he doesn't while he's awake. Edmund pushes close to him, buries his head in Peter's neck, and breathes. Peter strokes his sweat-damp back, murmuring, and when Edmund lifts up his head, he sees that Peter's eyes are still closed, his eyelashes barely visible in the shadows. Edmund puts his head back down again, feeling Peter's arms close in over him, holding him safe, and knows that whatever happens, it's all somehow going to be all right.

When he wakes up in the morning, Peter is gone.

Edmund doesn't see him all morning. Peter's suitcase sits by the door to their room, neatly packed and ready for the train ride, but Peter is nowhere to be found. He asks Lucy and Susan, sitting at the breakfast table, but they only shake their heads around their oatmeal.

Edmund wanders the halls restlessly, passing up and down staircases. He goes by the curtains he hid behind that day of the fateful game of hide and seek. He's about to reach out and touch them, try to gain a sense of who he was on that day, the day before Narnia, the day before his life began, but then he has an idea.

He runs, fast. He doesn't know that he's ever run faster, to the spare room.

He hasn't been back since they tumbled out of the wardrobe weeks ago. He knows Lu goes, to touch the wardrobe, to think she's talking to Aslan, but he hasn't. It's still there, of course, the wood looking just as dark, the light through the window falling just as slanted on the engraved pattern in the grain.

But he doesn't look at the wardrobe for long, because then Peter turns away from his own contemplation of the wardrobe and looks at him. His hands are clasped behind his back and there's pain in his eyes.

"What happened last night," he says, and swallows. Edmund watches his Adam's apple bob up and down, the lines of tension jutting out clear from his neck. "What happened…can't happen again."

And then, just then, Edmund feels anger building in his chest, moving to his shoulders and hands, clenching, digging. This whole time, back in England, he's been floating, unsure of what to do or how to react. Thinking Peter would tell him the best thing to do, the way he's always done. But now, he doesn't want to listen to Peter anymore.

"Who are you to say that?" he shouts, taking a step toward Peter, ready to shove his hands into Peter's chest and make him see, make him realize that he's not in charge. He's not the High King here. "Do you even care about what I think?"

"This isn't Narnia, Ed," Peter says, teeth clenched together, holding Edmund by the wrists so he can't touch him. And the worst is, he sound so certain, so absolutely sure, and Edmund wants to smash his teeth in and then kiss him.

"This isn't Narnia," he repeats, more gently, and Edmund can feel himself breaking, his hands falling, and tears. Peter releases his wrists gently and guides him to the floor. "Things are different here."

xXx

At home, their mother hugs them all, crushing them to her. There is stew boiling on the stove and the chairs and the table and the framed photos on the end table are all there. They sit down to supper and Peter folds his hands together before Edmund can reach out to hold one while they say grace.

Nothing has changed. And yet everything has.

* * *

A/N: At last, another Narnia incest. I wrote the first half of this (the happy half) a couple of months ago, and have just gotten around to the rest. I feel like I was a bit (read: a lot) overly descriptive throughout, but other than that, I'm pleased. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated, etc.


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